Diecast
by bearbearbear
Summary: "HIT THE DIRT, SOLDIER!" Welcome to New Paris, the centeral hub of the Terran Confederation's traning worlds. Here men are tested, men are pushed to their limits, and here men are made into marines.


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DIECAST

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A Military Epic by Rob Kunzig

New Paris was a barren world. Scorched to a dry, dusty husk by its twin suns, the planet offered little in the ways of luxury vacations. 

But it was the _perfect_ place to train the Marines of the Terran Confederation.

Drill Sergeant Hans stood on the tarmac onto which 22 new recruits were just dumped, face was twisting into as worn-leather scowl as he looked at the sorry assemblage before him.

"What in _hell?"_ was all he could manage to say. The recruits did pull off a perfect Hollywood attention, he thought. Chest out, faces fixed into the horizon, eyes glazed over in anticipation. 

"_Please_ tell me that you don't call this attention!" he bellowed in his whip-crack command voice. Hans was a small man, 5 feet 4 and 130 pounds. But his muscular stance and mean edge commanded respect. He walked forward five paces, stopping in front of a female recruit. Time to play_, _Hans thought. 

"Missy, why in hell did you join the Marine Corps?" he bellowed.

She winced at his point-blank onslaught 

"Sir," she said, " I wish to defend my Confederation to the best of my abilities, Sir!"

"Then why in hell did you join the Marine Corps?" He roared, several veins bulging in his forehead.

She failed to answer.

"Boys and girls," he shouted, his voice not loosing its intensity, " We don't defend our Confederation. What we do, is sit around and look mean! Nowadays, all we have to do is send in Johnny spec-ops to nuke the opposition, and the opposition is almost entirely composed of riff raff farmers, pissed about the new tarrifs!"

His word had a visual impact on the recruits. It was completely true, however. The Confederation had developed the ThermNuke ten years ago, a "safe" and "clean" way of disposing of the enemy. All the destructive power, none of the unpleasant side affects. 

"But, in the event that we actually have to go in and kick ass, we've gotta be ready! So the Commandant takes _real _marines like me and makes me turn you sorry sacks of shit from just that into Marines." His voice took on a softer tone, a country-accented one: "But with you people, I don't think I can do it." Hans executed a crisp right-step to the next recruit. There was a scant 2 inches between their noses.

"And you! Why did you even show up on my doorstep, thinking that you can be a Confed muh-reen?" 

Recruit Evans's expressionless face was shattered by Hans's verbal assault. 

"Sir, my father was a Confed Marine, and I want to be one also!" He tripped on his words all the way.

Hans was a man capable of a wide variety of facial expressions. His face contorted into a grimace-smile, as he nearly doubled over laughing. 

"So, your pappy was a Marine. Good for him. What did he do?" Hans's almost casual tone lured Evans into a false sense of security.

"He was a battle suit mechanic, served in the 27th." He said with a smile.

"A_ mechanic_!!??" Hans howled. "Evans, if you are as much of a pussy as your father, I don't suppose you'll last long in my camp! Now just for being stupid, suck dirt and give me 50!"

"And furthermore, the first and last words that will come out of your stinking holes will be sir! Do you get me, you sorry little inbreeds?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" they responded in discombobulated chorus.

Squatting, leaning close to Evans, Hans said quietly, sternly, "And your daddy is a thing of the past. You don't have no daddy no more. From now on, I am your daddy. And don't you forget it."

One of the things Hans wanted to establish the first night was that the world, the city, the house, the bed from which they came no longer existed. It was burned the instant DI Goforth, hollering in his deep, brassy, baritone voice orchestrated their sloppy egress from the hoverbus. He did an effective job of this by immediately immersing them in a military environment. Flanking the Welcome sign, standing sentry to the camp, was a pair of Arclite Siege Tanks, their steel shaft-like barrels saluting the setting sun. 2 squads of Goliath Anti-Aircraft biped mechs patrolled the perimeter in a wedge formation, looking as dangerous as a nest of pit vipers. However, the recruits had no trouble refraining from watching the show, thanks to Hans.

On to the next recruit, a tall gangly looking fellow who obviously had neglected his razor. Like all the other recruits, he was clad in civilian clothes. But he looked like he was straight out of the circus.

His pants, 3 sizes too large, sagged below the beltline, and his neon-yellow fleece pullover made him look like the incredible bulk. A sports cap was twisted to a bizarre angle, finishing the ensemble.

"Mr. Clown, I don't like you. Hit the deck and give me fifty." Next.

__

Oh, this one's interesting. Thought Hans as he sized up recruit Studenbach. He was dressed fairly conservatively, jeans, sneakers, and a tee shirt. What really riled Hans was his face.

Beneath the skin, a phosphorescent red tattoo gleamed with it's own bioorganic light.

"What in the hell is _that_?" Hans raged.

"Uh, Seargan-I mean Sir, it's uh, a tattoo. I wear it because, uh of, like, my religion. Y'know, the alien creators church, sir?"

Hans's tone dropped an octave and went neutral. 

"Son, the Corps, unlike so many other things in this Confederation, does not discriminate against religion. But, you either report to sickbay right now and have that stupid thing removed, or I'll send you straight to the chaplain and have him give you a religious discharge. Because I'll be damned if some tango drills you a new asshole in your forehead because of some stupid irr-eee-dess-ant tattoo! Your choice."

"Uh, I'll take sickbay, sir." He stuttered.

"Fall out. Goforth! Take Studenbach here to sickbay."

"Sir, yes sir" replied DI Goforth. The massive black man guided Studenbach to one of the Drab olive stucco buildings.

Hans stepped back, three paces, and went to at ease, his firm body silhouetted by the brassy light of the setting sun. 

"Now," he said, "Comes the fun part."

From his pocket, he withdrew a small green box contoured to his hand. He spoke into it, his words quick and brusque. Seconds later after the comlink was replaced, one of the patrolling goliaths broke formation and strode towards their position. As the ungainly biped strutted nearer, the recruits gazed at its ungodly form with mixed confusion and excitement. 

The Goliath was ugly. In its center of mass was an ovular pod, which contained the cockpit. From its shoulders jutted two huge anti-aircraft rocket launchers, their steely barrels bobbing with each footfall. Its legs were shaped like those of a bird, making the incoming machine look like some jaunting childhood monster. Hanging comically between its legs was a .50 caliber machine gun.

"Do not look at the Goliath! One's eyes do not move when one is at the position of attention! Look at me!" He said with a feral roar.

In unison, the recruit's eyes snapped back to him.

"You see that building over there in the distance?" he pointed to the horizon. About two miles away was the silhouette of a short and stocky building. 

"That is your Barracks. In it you will eat, sleep, shit, and live. The grounds around it have been transformed into obstacle courses and fire zones designed to test you and push you to your limits!"

The Goliath came to a thudding halt 5 meters behind Hans. The DI didn't even look back.

"You will run from here to the barracks. And you will run_ faster_ than you've ever run. Because Sergeant Halloway here," he gestured back to the Goliath, "will be chasing you."

Gasps and cries came from the formation.

"Did I ask you to speak? No. So shut the hell up."

Calmly, he continued, "This Goliath has been retrofitted so that instead of carrying a .50 caliber machine gun, it carries a Argon 160 watt stun laser. This weapon has a range of 10 meters. Should you come into range of it, Sergeant Halloway will strike you down so fast that your dungeating mouth won't even have time to emit a girly gasp of surprise before it's sucking dirt! You will be given a 2-minute head start, starting...now." The now was whispered purposely. 

Looking back to the recruits, he hollered, "What the hell are you looking at? The clock is ticking ladies! Run, run, RUN!" 

Before the last "run", the recruits sprinted off, a cloud of dust hanging behind them. Chuckling, Hans strode over to his preferred method of transportation, a Vulture.

Long, sleek, sinister, and wicked fast, the Vulture was a hoverbike designed by Confed for scouting purposes. Hans favored it because of the sheer intimidation factor it offered.

He plopped into its comfy leather seat, the bike bobbing as the hover drives compensated for the change of weight. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds left. What the hell.

"Sergeant, begin." He said into the vulture's comlink.

Chuckling, Halloway responded, "With pleasure, DI." 

With a grin, Hans withdrew from the Vulture's glove compartment a set of black-tinted sunglasses and donned them. He then removed his smoky-the-bear hat, and primed the Vulture's engines.

The faithful machine responded with a cough-sputter ROAR, and wearing the grin all those who ride with the sun wear, he slammed on the accelerator.

The vulture bucked and then bolted from its mount, thick clouds of dust hanging behind it. 

Bugs stung Han's bald copper-colored scalp as he set after the mob of the recruits. The landscape dissolved into a tan-brown blur, and Hans's grin widened.

He pulled up beside the lumbering Goliath. God, that thing could fly when it wanted to, thought Hans. He grinned and exchanged salutes with Halloway, who seemed to be immensely enjoying the chase. 

The vulture sped towards the mob of recruits, which seemed to be dissolving as some met with aching lungs and sore legs. Several turned their heads to see what exactly was coming. As he approached them, he fired off a volley of grenades.

__

Whoop-Whoop....Whoop-Whoop went the launcher. This time, the noise was heard throughout the platoon. Several looked, then dove for cover as the grenades arced towards them. They detonated not with a fireball, but with a crisp BANG and a flash of sun-intensity light.

Thank you God, for inventing Flashbang grenades, reflected Hans silently.

Several fell, and grasping their ears in agony. The got up only when the felt the increasing tremors of the approaching Goliath, a potent motivator. 

It must have been a hilarious scene, a shattered mob, running for their lives from a giant with guns and a lunatic on a bike.

The first to fall prey to the Goliath was one of the platoon's "fat trays". He collapsed in a heap as his muscles turned to Jell-O and he lost consciousness. Several more met the same fate. 

Hans decided to make this job a little harder. He gunned the Vulture to even higher speeds, passing the platoon, and finally skidding to a halt at the barracks door. He laughed as he saw that the Vulture left a 3-foot slit for the recruit to pass through. The first to enter the sphere of illumination that surrounded the barracks, was a young, lean recruit. Not hesitating, he jumped and flew through the slot, slapping unceremoniously onto the metal deck. The rest who had managed to escape the Goliath followed suit.

When the flow of recruits stopped, Hans backed up, and drove the Vulture around back where he maneuvered it into a tarp shelter. As the deployed the kickstand and turned the beast off, he allowed a second or two for himself to unwind. After regaining his composure, he replaced the sunglasses, and donned his hat. Standing in the barracks's threshold, he looked upon the platoon. They sat slumped against the walls, some lying down, enjoying the cool metal deck. 

"Who said you could grease the floor of my barracks, with your disgusting pig sweat? Get the hell up and fall into a mass formation!"

10 minutes later, in the dark, the Goliath's victims stumbled into the barracks, caked in dust and panting excessively, were slapped into formation by Hans.

Dear Lord, give me strength, for this is gonna be a long six weeks, thought Hans, his head bowed in uneager anticipation.

****

Part 2

Hans was jolted awake by five volts of electricity from his wrist chrono. His eyes snapped open, and he sat up. The taste of phlegm was prominent in his mouth as he rid his eyes of a good night's sleep. The Chrono said 0430.

"Time to go to work." Hans growled.

He donned his faded desert BDUs he used for Physical Training. His spit-shined steel-toed boots were next; followed by his black baseball cap, sporting in big, bold yellow letters the word "GOD". He made his bed to regulations specifications, with perfect hospital-bed corners. 

For Hans, Perfection was the order of the day. In his bed, in his boots, and in his Class-A dress blues, this was clear. He walked out of the barracks, boots klanking hollowly along the steel floor, and stepped into the chilly New Paris morning. The sound of silence deafened him as he walked around the barracks to his parked Vulture. About to mount it, he decided against it. Vultures, or at least his, were noisy beasts. _Better let the girlies get their sleep, _Hans thought. _They're gonna need it._

Hans executed an about face, and walked towards the dimly illuminated half-oval command center. His boots made soft scraping sounds against the pebble-spangled ground, kicking up plumes of dust. Nighttime animals scuttled for cover under stray clumps of tumbleweed, hanging still in the breezeless morn. 

As he walked, Hans pondered the planet's name. _New Paris. Now where the hell did that come from? Probably some drunken deep space explorer who named it after his wife. _With a sardonic grin, Hans growled "She musta been a bitch..."

As he neared the stout box that was called the Weapons Factory, he withdrew the comm from his pocket. 

"Hey, dickhead, you there?" he drawled into the comm.

"Yeah, I'm here." boomed Goforth on the other end. "Wussup?"

"Get the Siege tank loaded with the boomer shells, and the Goliaths loaded with Flashbang blanks. I want them, and you and Morley outside the barracks at 0500. You and Morely get the grenade launchers and load 'em with smokes. I've got a plan for the ladies."

Goforth chuckled in his deep baritone. "Right on, boss. Over and out."

Hans walked up to the mammoth weapons facility, and stepped inside.

The smell of motor oil and axle grease invaded his senses. Four Goliaths were lined up alongside the far wall, shut down. Machines loaded them with the prescribed flashbang blacks, which clinked and clanked as they made their way into the Goliath's ammo boxes.

The mighty siege tank was also being loaded, though with much bigger shells. Goforth and Morley were lounging on a tired and tattered couch, sipping coffee. 

Once Goforth noticed him, he smiled and held up a cup of the steaming Java. 

"Got your cup right here, boss."

Hans graciously accepted with a smile. Morely, a short man with a clean-shaven scalp, sat up and cleared his throat. Hocking deep and low, he then spit out a phlegm ball the size of a small rodent.

"Lovely, Morely" Hans said.

"Damn straight. So what's on the agenda for today, anyway?"

"First off, we've got PT. Then breakfast, followed by more PT, then lunch, and then finally their 101 exam."

Morely grinned. "Sweet."

Grinning himself, Hans withdrew from his pocket a camouflage-paint stick. He began to smear green across his face.

"Putting on the makeup boss?" Goforth boomed.

All Hans had to do was nod and grin.

Silence is golden, someone once said. He/she would have loved the New Paris dawn. The only sound was the soft scratching of claws on pebble and rock as rodents of the nocturne fled from the coming sun into their lairs. 

Suddenly the silence was destroyed. Dust flew, small rodents flew, and birds dropped from the sky as the resounding boom of an Arclite Siege tank's Shock cannon beat silence into the next century.

Inside the barracks, Drill instructor Robert Hans began his day.

"WAKE UP, LADIES!"

Hans hurled an aluminum trashcan down the row of bunks. The derelict can, deformed from many previous tours of duty, rebounded haphazardly off bedposts, striking a few of the lighter recruits who were hurled from their beds by the shockwave. 

"Get your asses in PT gear, and fall into a mass formation outside! Do it in 2 minutes!"

Sleepy and shocked recruits battled with a persistent fog of slumber that made them trip and fall out of bed, into bunkmates, and into lockers. Once the first few stumbled through the dimly lit steel corridors, and then spilled outside, the real chaos began. 

Four Goliaths opened up, cannons of full auto. Their jarring, crackling roar augmented the disarray. Goforth and Morely fired a volley of smoke grenades at the barracks's entrance, and recruits tripped and fell, disoriented into the smoky transition from slumber to hell.

A 5' 4" green camouflage monster with an ebony oak baton chased out the last "fat tray" recruits. Once Training platoon 452 was in formation at double arm intervals, calisthenics began. 

"One two three ONE one two three TWO" the recruits would chant as they pumped out their push-ups. By 15, many were collapsing, caked dust on their faces. Hans immediately screamed them back into the torture. 

When at last the Goliaths ran out of ammo and the recruits had far surpassed their physical limits, Hans ordered them to their feet. Two recruits didn't get up. With and exasperated sigh, Hans bellowed, 

"MEDIC!"   
Two white-armor clad females arrived on the scene in record time, removing the unconscious men from the formation. 

The rising sun turned black into blue, semi-silhouetting the formation of recruits. With interest, Hans noted that neither, Evans, Studenbach, or Mr. Clown seemed phased by the calisthenics. Hans approached Studenbach.

His face showed a couple of scars from the surgery, though it didn't seem to bother him the slightest.

"Face all better, Sweetheart?" 

"Sir, yes sir! Studenbach barked.

"Good!"

Stepping back, Hans placed his hands on his hips. The green-faced terror said in a low, menacing voice, " fall out into two columns. We're gonna run."

A couple of recruits stirred, but nonetheless didn't move. 

"Ladies, we are not playing Simon says! See this?" He pointed to his hat.

"God's on vacation for Fort McGuire, and guess who he left in charge?"

A chuckle. "Me."

Then, as if it had been forgotten, his face snapped back to "monster."

"Well, fall the hell out!"

****

Part 3

The Barracks's "class room" was actually an old cargo bay. Bleak, steel walls punctuated rarely by maintenance paneling.

Now, recruit Platoon 452 occupied it.

__

Seems as if they've actually gotten the hang of it now, thought Hans. They stood at a rigid parade rest, a position that accented their now chiseled features.

The wall opposite them was occupied by a lone Mk V "Razorback" battle suit. The two-meter tall Frankenstein certainly looked that way, with its large plasteel feet and bulky form. 

In front of it, stood Hans.

"At ease."

In one crisp, collective movement, the hands snapped from below their shoulder blades to just above the beltline. All eyes focused on Hans. 

"This, ladies, is the Mk V "Razorback" battle suit. It has, on average, 3 inches of plasteel surrounding every inch of its body. It is capable of reaching speeds up to 30 mph on land. It can lift 1000 pounds. It can carry 3000 rounds of "impaler" gauss rifle slugs. And it can kill. Remember that.."

"While using the battlesuit, you will take advantage of its muscle and reflex augmentation. The weakest man can kill in a battle suit. It has built in stimpacks to feed you adrenaline during intense combat. Equipped in it is the "Athena" fire control suite, which will enable you to achieve pinpoint accuracy."

He approached the monster. Pressing his thumb against a small panel, he said, "Hans."

The suit's torso hissed open, hydraulics sighing. He removed his dress shoes, then stepped inside. Once his body had filled the machine's void, cushions extended and contoured to his form. 

"Close" he said flatly.

Another hydraulic sigh and the chest closed, swallowing up Hans. His head popped up inside the small helmet on the beast's shoulders.

"Moving inside the Razorback isn't easy at first", he lectured. "It feels clumsy, but after all I put you through, you'll wear it like a 'nuther layer of skin."

Hans demonstrated movement. With each footfall there was a loud "thump", and the purring of servos filled the space in-between. Once Hans had reached the other side of the bay, he gently whispered the word, "Cat".

To the recruits, the next series of events were but a blur. A large rectangular panel, on cue, popped out from the seamless wall. Inside the sheath it supported was a GAU-70B Gauss rifle. Hans hopped, and rolled into an impossibly silent somersault, snagging the rifle on the way. Curtly, he rolled into a kneeling position, visor down, rifle up, and laser sight on.

Evans almost fainted when he saw the small red dot flickering between his eyes.

Hans stood up. "Ladies, meet your new best friend, the GAU-70B Gauss rifle. It is a .70 caliber weapon, which fires high velocity depleted uranium spikes at a speed of 10 rounds per second. To show you the full capacity of this rifle, I will give the command 'on your bellies'. After that, you will have exactly one second until I open up above your soft little heads." To make his point clear, he cocked the weapon with a "click CLICK". 

"On your bellies" said Hans without emotion.

All the recruits dropped in unison.

Hans pulled the trigger.

Satan's ripping laugh echoed off the walls, tearing the fabric of space and time with its sheer noise. 

Hans allowed the smoke to settle. He inhaled deeply, savoring the burnt smell of gunpowder. 

He cleared his throat.

"Platoon, Ah-teeeeeen-SHUT!"

The platoon hopped to attention, with the exception of the two Fat Trays, who didn't stir. 

Shaking his head and cursing under his breath, he engaged the comm built into his suit. After a brief exchange of words, two white-armored medics, a sight the recruits were now accustomed to, came and dragged fatties 1&2 away.

Exhaling nosily, Hans placed his hands upon his hips, standing at the typical "superiority" position.

"Now", he growled, "Any questions?"

****

Part 4

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I'll be damned if this isn't one of the best platoons I've ever trained, reflected Hans.

He had arrived at this conclusion by watching the recruits deftly negotiate the BSCC (Battle Suit Confidence Course). 

Hans couldn't suppress the gush of pride at times like when Evans scored a 250 on his precision rifle targets, or when Studenbach traversed the BSCC in 2:50. Or, especially, when Mr. Clown successfully led his squad to victory in an inter-platoon laser skirmish. 

__

The sun must be baking them inside their armor, Hans thought. _But they sure don't show it._

He was most pleased with the performance of Fatties 1 and 2. Their fat had been turned into bulk muscle, and their exceptional stamina and strength allowed them to be the top candidates for Firebat selection. "Firebats", as they were called, were Confed's elite infantry. Touting dual flame-throwers, theirs was one of the most coveted positions among the ground ponders.

He had barely noticed Studenbach marching the rest of the platoon towards him. The recruits, with their stolid dust caked faces, showed no pride or emotion, regardless of the fact that they had just beaten McGuire's top BSCC time.

"Plah-toon, HALT!" howled Studenbach.

"Good job, ladies!" drawled Hans. "But it ain't good enough! Do it again!"

The platoon didn't react to this in the slightest. "Platoon, Rear, march!" ordered Studenbach.

Hans chuckled, withdrawing the evil comm from his pocket. 

"Goforth, Morley- make their lives more interesting." said Hans.

There was no audio confirmation; however, two armored figures standing at each end of the BSCC burst into action. Hans could hear the ascending whine of a powering up stun laser even from his position. 

With a sun-baked smile, Hans thought, _Can't be gettin soft, now can we?_

****

Part 5

__

Tomorrow they Graduate, thought Hans, as he turned out his quarter's glowlamps.

Shafts of light filtered in through the vent above his cot. Pale moonlight stretched in stripes across his body as he began to undress. _Six weeks, six weeks is all it takes to make a Marine. _He felt positively melancholy. His glory days were long past, and this particular batch of recruits really made him feel old. Their youthful vigor reminded him of his boot days, 40 years ago. With a sigh, he plopped into his bed, sleeping above the sheets. His eyes, closed, and Hans's brain began to spool downwards into slumber.

He felt it more than he heard it. Of course, there was the rolling thunder that had tossed the recruits out of their beds, that was still there. But more noticeable were the pictures and lights that jumped and fell from their shelves. 

Hans jolted awake, eyes coldly staring forward, ears listening. The booms sounded again. _There's no drills slated tonight, _Hans thought out loud. Then his stomach lurched into his throat and his heart stopped beating as her realized with acute terror:

__

We're under attack.

Hans stumbled from his bed, overturning it. Racing out of his room, the ran to the nearest wallcomm. The small black panel stood out in sharp contrast to the white wall. He slammed his fist onto the red button, and hollered into the panel:

"Platoon, we are under attack! This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill! Get suited up and loaded up, and get the hell out there and fight!"

His orders echoed off the barracks steel walls, sounding throughout the structure. Hans sprinted down the hallway, feet slapping the cold metal floor.

"Recruits, remember your training, and fight, fight, FIGHT! I'm proud of you and have faith in you. Now get your guns and let's rock and roll!"

Nervous but genuine cheers filled the armory's spacious volume, and fists were thrust into the air as they lined up for the ready line. Studenbach rushed up and opened the door, letting the recruits sprint through. Some whooped and hollered war cries while others stayed deathly silent. The sprinted down the narrow corridor, grabbing their rifles from their assigned lockers. Heavy steel boots klanged against the steel-grate deck. When at last all had gone through, Hans and Sudenbach grabbed their guns and rushed out into the cold New Paris dawn together. 

The booms persisted, lighting the surrounding area for a few split seconds. _The siege tanks will get em before we even get to fire off a shot, _Hans thought. Somehow, it didn't reassure him much. 

Hans ordered his suit to open the comm, and immediately his helmet was flooded with cries and screams:

"Oh my GOD!"

"ARRRRGH!"

"Mommy, help, it pains..."

"BUGS! FRICKIN BUGS!!"

"HOLD THE LINE, DAMNIT, HOLD THE LINE!"

"Studenbach, you hearing this?" Hans said with a hint of disbelief.

"Sir, I'm trying not to, sir." came his reply. However firm and brave it was meant to be, Hans could clearly hear panic in the young man's voice.

Finally, the marines neared the bunkers. The squat, gray half-ovals stood unoccupied. The earth-shattering explosion of an Arclite siege tank made Hans stop and look.

It stood burning, turret torn clear off. Silhouetted by the fire in which it burned. The red, soothing flames distracted him momentarily. 

"Sir, we've got hostiles!" Clown's terrified voice slapped Hans back to reality. Hans sprinted towards the line of bunkers, diving into one. He crashed into Morely, who was knocked flat on his rear.

"Thanks for showing up. Thought I was being stood up there, for a moment."

"Anytime sweetheart. What's the situation?"

"Look for yourself!"

As he poked his head above the bunker's firing slits, the other siege tank exploded.

In the flare of the detonation, Hans saw the enemy.

A thousand red eyes, glittering claws, and thrashing tails rushed towards the small line of bunkers.

"Open fire!" Hans gave the order, with a fierce bellow.

He squeezed the trigger hard, and felt comfort in the gun's vicious recoil. Tracer shells streaked into the night, striking the monsters down where they stood. 

What in the _hell? _thought a very confused Hans. He was expecting armor-clad rebels, but these...these were unworldly_. _

The invaders that did enter the sphere of illumination were popped like a blood balloon. Hans stopped firing for a moment. You could truly see the demons when they entered the burning tank's sphere of illumination. They were squat, fat, and had sthycle claws and rows of serrated teeth.

"Like dogs" Hans muttered.

Even though there was an almost perpetual wall of blood where the shells met the beasts, that wall was advancing. A fog of red covered the battlefield.

"Sir, there are too many of 'em! Too man-arrrrrgh!!!"

Clown's frantic words snapped something in Hans. His head jerked right, to the bunker in which clown was in. A pack of the nightmare invaders had broken away and leapt into the bunker. The view ports flashed white and guns fired, silhouetting the lopsided fight for all to see. Primal screams pierced Han's ears.

"No!" Hans bellowed, leaping from his bunker. Goforth tried to snare him, to hold him back, but it was impossible. Hans, screaming his Marine war cry, ran towards the bunker, pumping DUA-70 rounds into the squat structure. Cries of pain still arose from the house of horrors.

Suddenly, the sky was ripped apart by a deafening roar. Crimson bolts streaked down from the sky, smashing the bunker into rubble. Hans shielded himself from the chunks that flew his way. He instinctively looked skyward. 

At first there was nothing. Then, nothingness shimmered, distorted, and transformed into the distinct outline of 4 "Wraith"-class close air support fighters- uncloaking and strafing the monsters. _Wraiths, here? _thought a confused Hans. _There aren't any squadrons anywhere nea-_

Hans was thrown to the ground as a rampaging monster pounced upon him.

It snapped, and thrashed, scoring deep slashes in Hans's armor. Hans yelled in pure, unadulterated terror. He summoned all his strength to hurl the creature off his chest. Finally, he did, and the foul-smelling thing was hurled a good 8 feet. Quickly, Hans picked up his rife, extended, the bayonet, and stuck it in front of his prone form.

His gambit worked. The enraged monster, rushing towards him with blind fury, impaled itself on the huge blade, and as Hans felt and heard it's agony, he pulled the trigger.

The beast was sawed neatly in half, covering Hans with foul smelling red blood.

His battle conditioning taught him to ignore this, and so he jumped to his feet.

Then a new noise grabbed his attention. A distant rumble sounded, and he looked behind him.

Two dropships, their bulky figures barely discernable, roared overhead.

Out of their rear drop-hatches fell camouflaged troopers, descending on twin gets of flame. When they hit the ground, they burst into action. Sprinting past the bunkers, the Firebat troopers engaged their flame-throwers. 

Jets of yellow flame shot from their wrists, and broiled the monsters when they came into range. As their own body temperature rose to their flash point, they erupted in a lavish explosion of blood. Hans stood gaping. Camouflage patterns...Firebats... 

__

The Cerberus recon unit.

The Firebats of the Cerberus special assault and recon unit were some of the most highly trained and skilled Confed fighters. Their methodical advance reminded Hans of garbage men, taking out the trash. 

Hans sprinted over to the rubble of the fallen bunker. He frantically searched through the blasted rubble, looking for his recruits. He lifted a large piece of rubble, and he saw a glint of brass. Frantically, he grasped for and grabbed the metal. Lifting it to his face, he could see it was a brass nameplate- a nameplate with the word "Clown" chiseled across it.

Hans couldn't contain it anymore. He fell to his knees and wept. As explosions and death resounded in the background, Hans wept for the innocence shattered by the abruptness and brutality of death.

****

Part 6

"Lt. Commander Montag, you wished to see me?"

"Yes, have a seat sergeant."

Hans limped in with the aid of a crutch, seating himself in a well-worn leather chair. 

It was day now, and it was over. 45% of his recruits now rested in body bags. The rest lay in hospital beds, sleeping peacefully.

Hans had escaped with only a compound fracture in his leg, and 3 broken ribs. Even with the comfort of the overstuffed chair, Hans ached.

Montag was a stout man, with a sunburned and singed face and blazing red hair. He was Cerburus's Firebat commander, and his scarlet class A's spangled with medals and ribbons proved that.

"Sergeant, right now, you're probably wondering what the _hell _happened. I'll tell you, alright, but if you tell, you'll be a dead man. Clear?

Han's rock hard stare didn't waver.

"Clear."

"They were aliens, Hans. Honest-to-God aliens. We don't know where they came from, but they've popped up on over 8 confederate worlds so far. Cerberus has barely been able to keep pace." He leaned forward and slapped his oak desk.

"I didn't want it to happen to a training unit, ok? I'm sorry it had to be yours."

"Will 'sorry' bring back the 18 lives lost?" Hans retorted bitterly.

"No, but damnit, you're a soldier. People die." He said. "You, of all people should know that."

Han's eye twitched involuntarily.

Montag sighed. "Nonetheless, your recruits performed extremely well. It's safe to say they've finished their training."

Hans nodded.

"Cerberus needs new people", Montag continued, "If we're gonna keep this suppressed, then we need fresh talent. "He pointed to Hans.

"You and your men have what it takes. We're building up an elite marine strike corps, and..."  
Hans sat up straight as if he were just struck. He bit his tongue, so he could suppress the pain that arced through his chest. With a fire that had been held in reserve for 40 years, he growled,

"With all due respect, sir, _go to hell._ MY men have shed their blood already, and they don't need to shed it anymore."

He stood up.

"It aint worth dying for. Those 20 men in the infirmary, those young men, their lives will never be the same. And there's nothing, I repeat NOTHING, that you can do about it.

Montag said with a strong resolute:

"Okay, sergeant, fine. You will be permitted to attend their graduation in two days. Immediately following, you will turn in your resignation. Either that, or you will be court martialed, and I will stick you in the worst hole his galaxy had to offer."

The two men locked eyes, steel wills clashing.

Montag blinked. "Do you get me?" he said dryly.

  
Without saying a thing, Hans turned and exited the room, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

As Hans hobbled down the rows of hospitalized soldiers, he couldn't fully suppress the awful sinking feeling. What he saw were some of the finest young men ever born. Most were asleep, sleeping the sleep of the just. 

He finally came to a halt beside Studenbach's bed. When he laid his eyes upon him, however, his hand went to his throat, and his eyes bulged.

Studenbach's entire lower jaw was gone, the void filled by IV tubes feeding him fluids and food. His throat bore a heavy amount of red-stained bandages. 

Han's heart froze cold when he saw that Studenbach was awake and staring at him. His eyes told him everything. 

His eyes told him of an innocent boy, his youth ripped out, like his throat.

They told of a future of potential, of love, of _hope, _washed away with the swiftness of a terrible blow.

And form the corner of Studenbach's tortured eyes came a tear.

Hans couldn't handle it. He collapsed on his knees next to Studenbach's bead. Bawling, like a child. Several nurses rushed to the scene, and their faces flushed red when they saw what was going on. Embarrassed, they quietly withdrew from the room.

When Hans regained his composure, he stood up and noticed Studenbach was sound asleep. Sniffing, he stroked his blond hair. _Just a boy of 18, _he thought.

He began to walk towards the doorway.

He stopped dead at the he threshold, as if some invisible wall restrained him. He turned around, and allowed his eyes to pass over the recruits.

__

These are men,**__**he thought. _Diecast of the strongest steel._

The thought floundered in his head as he paused.

With a proud nod, he thought, _Diecast. Yes, that is the word._


End file.
